chocolate soufflé for me; tiramisu for Barbara.
For Jack?
Hot tea. With lemon.
“Look, Don,” he said, “you and Barbara have been most gracious, and this place is delightful. I don’t want to disappoint you, but nothing makes me happier than two poached eggs.” Big pause. “And a slice of toast.”
At that moment—don’t ask me why—I loved Jack Benny even more.
A Kid from the Neighborhood
T hat’s who I am.
That’s who I’ll always be.
So when a kid from the neighborhood learns he’s going to the White House, he’s excited.
Doesn’t matter who the President is—the President could be a peanut farmer—but the kid’s still excited.
In fact, the President was a peanut farmer. Jimmy Carter was the man, and me, Barbara and our kids were off to Washington to meet him. Bob Newhart had arranged it, and it was going to be a family affair. He was bringing Ginnie and their kids. We were all thrilled.
“Be low-key,” Bob kept telling me. “This is the White House.”
“Hey, Bob, I know the difference between the White House and the White Castle, where they give you a bag of burgers for a buck.”
When we arrived, we were greeted by Zbigniew Brzezinski, national security adviser to the President.
“The President is looking forward to meeting you all,” said Mr. Brzezinski.
As we walked down toward the Oval Office, several officials stopped us.
“The President is waiting to meet you,” they said.
We bumped into Vice President Walter Mondale. “I understand you’re going to meet the President,” he said.
When we got to the Oval Office, Carter’s secretary was there to meet us.
“I’m afraid the President just stepped out,” she said. “He should be right back. Would you like to take a look in his office?”
Sure.
We stepped inside. It looked just the way it looks in the movies. Not a scrap of paper on his desk. On the back of the big swivel chair behind his desk was a grey cardigan sweater.
“That’s his sweater,” said the secretary.
Bob looked at me.
I looked at Bob.
The President’s sweater wasn’t all that thrilling.
“Will the President be back shortly?” we asked.
“He should,” said the secretary. “He’d like to say hello to all of you.”
We waited for a minute or two, but no President. Outside the Oval Office, we waited a little while longer. No President.
“Where is he, ma’am?” I asked.
“He heard you were coming,” said Bob, “and he must have gotten nervous and left.”
Back in Los Angeles, everyone asked me, “Did you meet the President?”
“No,” I said, “but I made friends with his sweater.”
“Bob and Bruce, how do I know if your albums will sell?”
Rock and Roll Rickles
A s time went on, President Carter wasn’t the only celebrity dying to meet me. The biggest rock-and-roll star since Elvis had busted out, and my son, Larry, was dying to see him. I pulled some strings and we were off to see Bruce Springsteen.
Since I’m a Vegas kind of guy, I didn’t have any background in big-time rock shows. I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t know we needed fourteen badges and eighteen wristbands to get past the thirty-two security guards to get to our seats in the VIP area. I didn’t know that the twenty loudspeakers onstage would be blasting out more noise than atomic bombs. I didn’t know that the show would go on for three hours, getting louder by the minute.
Didn’t know that his fans sitting around us would be screaming even before the show started.
Didn’t know that to meet Bruce we’d have to wait outside his dressing room for two hours without food or water.
When we were finally escorted in, I saw this extremely kind and sweet man wearing a bandana around his forehead. He looked like a pirate.
“Great show, Bruce,” I said.
“Hope you’ll come to another one,” he said.
“What?” I said. “I can’t hear you.”
I’d gone deaf.
Moby Dick
I n spite of the volume, I really liked the Springsteen
For Jack?
Hot tea. With lemon.
“Look, Don,” he said, “you and Barbara have been most gracious, and this place is delightful. I don’t want to disappoint you, but nothing makes me happier than two poached eggs.” Big pause. “And a slice of toast.”
At that moment—don’t ask me why—I loved Jack Benny even more.
A Kid from the Neighborhood
T hat’s who I am.
That’s who I’ll always be.
So when a kid from the neighborhood learns he’s going to the White House, he’s excited.
Doesn’t matter who the President is—the President could be a peanut farmer—but the kid’s still excited.
In fact, the President was a peanut farmer. Jimmy Carter was the man, and me, Barbara and our kids were off to Washington to meet him. Bob Newhart had arranged it, and it was going to be a family affair. He was bringing Ginnie and their kids. We were all thrilled.
“Be low-key,” Bob kept telling me. “This is the White House.”
“Hey, Bob, I know the difference between the White House and the White Castle, where they give you a bag of burgers for a buck.”
When we arrived, we were greeted by Zbigniew Brzezinski, national security adviser to the President.
“The President is looking forward to meeting you all,” said Mr. Brzezinski.
As we walked down toward the Oval Office, several officials stopped us.
“The President is waiting to meet you,” they said.
We bumped into Vice President Walter Mondale. “I understand you’re going to meet the President,” he said.
When we got to the Oval Office, Carter’s secretary was there to meet us.
“I’m afraid the President just stepped out,” she said. “He should be right back. Would you like to take a look in his office?”
Sure.
We stepped inside. It looked just the way it looks in the movies. Not a scrap of paper on his desk. On the back of the big swivel chair behind his desk was a grey cardigan sweater.
“That’s his sweater,” said the secretary.
Bob looked at me.
I looked at Bob.
The President’s sweater wasn’t all that thrilling.
“Will the President be back shortly?” we asked.
“He should,” said the secretary. “He’d like to say hello to all of you.”
We waited for a minute or two, but no President. Outside the Oval Office, we waited a little while longer. No President.
“Where is he, ma’am?” I asked.
“He heard you were coming,” said Bob, “and he must have gotten nervous and left.”
Back in Los Angeles, everyone asked me, “Did you meet the President?”
“No,” I said, “but I made friends with his sweater.”
“Bob and Bruce, how do I know if your albums will sell?”
Rock and Roll Rickles
A s time went on, President Carter wasn’t the only celebrity dying to meet me. The biggest rock-and-roll star since Elvis had busted out, and my son, Larry, was dying to see him. I pulled some strings and we were off to see Bruce Springsteen.
Since I’m a Vegas kind of guy, I didn’t have any background in big-time rock shows. I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t know we needed fourteen badges and eighteen wristbands to get past the thirty-two security guards to get to our seats in the VIP area. I didn’t know that the twenty loudspeakers onstage would be blasting out more noise than atomic bombs. I didn’t know that the show would go on for three hours, getting louder by the minute.
Didn’t know that his fans sitting around us would be screaming even before the show started.
Didn’t know that to meet Bruce we’d have to wait outside his dressing room for two hours without food or water.
When we were finally escorted in, I saw this extremely kind and sweet man wearing a bandana around his forehead. He looked like a pirate.
“Great show, Bruce,” I said.
“Hope you’ll come to another one,” he said.
“What?” I said. “I can’t hear you.”
I’d gone deaf.
Moby Dick
I n spite of the volume, I really liked the Springsteen
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